The Shadows of Gods
by ProcrastinatingPalindrome
Summary: A country's old gods don't just disappear... Chapter 2: The god of darkness follows Russia home one night.
1. A Drink with the Allfather

AN: This isn't really a crossover with The Eight Days of Luke or American Gods, but it was certainly inspired by each. Probably also the product of reading large amounts of Vinland Saga in the wee hours of the morning. My viking obsessed archeology professor just added fuel to the fire by gushing over longships all semester. Blah blah, on with the show.

If Denmark had been paying attention, he might have noticed something was a bit off about that rundown little roadside bar. He might have noticed the two large ravens perched on the fence outside, and that their eyes were far more intelligent than any normal bird's. He might have stopped and thought that it was strange that someone had left a horse tied up outside (and if he had really looked closely, he might have noticed that the horse had too many legs.) A green neon sign above the door read 'Hlidskjalf,' but even that didn't stand out much in his mind. Denmark just thought was that it was kind of a weird name for a bar, but he had certainly been to bars with weirder names than that. He just wanted a beer and this was the first place he came upon, but as he walked through the front door he found himself craving mead. He hadn't had a drop of the stuff in ages, but now he couldn't get it out of his head.

The inside had the same musty old feeling that the outside had. There were a few wooden tables and chairs, and the place was empty except for a female bartender and one old man wearing a dark blue coat sitting at the bar. Denmark strolled up and took a seat next to the man.

"You serve mead here, don't you? I want a glass."

"I'll have the same," said the old man. Denmark glanced over at him. There was something incredibly familiar about the fellow. His white hair and beard were long, uncommonly so, although that in itself wasn't so terribly strange. There was a very tall walking stick, more of a staff, really, that was resting against the bar beside him that also seemed a bit out of place. It wasn't until Denmark noticed the man was missing an eye, a fact that he made no attempt to cover it with a patch or glass eye, that all the pieces suddenly fell into place.

"Good evening," the man said, and turned his remaining eye toward Denmark, who suddenly felt that he should have been kneeling. "I don't suppose that you remember me."

"Sure I do," Denmark answered, after swallowing a few times to bring himself back in control. This always seemed to happen whenever they met, although it had been centuries since they last spoke. Even Denmark found it hard to not be intimidated by someone like him. "I didn't know that you were still alive, though. It's been a long time."

"I haven't been forgotten. I live so long as I am remembered, just as you live so long as your people are still whole."

"If that's how it works then damn, you'll live forever. Who could forget you?"

Their mead had arrived by then. Denmark stared at his and waited for the man to take a drink before sampling his own. It tasted old, like the halls and the longships and the days when the world had been so much bigger.

"Many have forgotten me," the man said, breaking the silence. "More forget every year. People have no need for me these days."

The ugly truth hung in the air, and the silence turned thick and heavy. Denmark couldn't very well deny it, and suddenly found himself at a loss for words. Was he supposed to say something comforting now? He wasn't an expert on comforting people. He usually went with a brotherly punch on the arm when he felt one of his Scandinavian brothers needed some cheering up, and somehow that didn't seem like the right thing to do with a god. When he finally found the words, they were halting and awkward.

"You're still here, you know. We haven't forgotten you yet. But I gotta say, I almost didn't recognize you at first. It's the t-shirt and jeans, they threw me off." Denmark almost continued to say 'you look more like some old hippie than the chief of the gods,' but thought better of it. He remembered what the old man was like when he got angry.

"I had to change in order to continue being a part of this world," the old man said with a hint of annoyance. "How far would I get if I wore robes or chain mail? You have had to change too, I see. You exchanged your longships for those ugly metal boats."

"I had to. A country has to keep up with the rest of the world, y'know? The steel ships we've got now are stronger than anything we could have build out of wood. They're faster too, crossing the ocean is pretty easy these days."

"But they are not beautiful. They have no soul."

There was nothing he could say. Of course the modern ships couldn't compare to the old ones. They were stronger and faster, sure, but they meant so much less. They weren't alive, not like the longships had been. They had a spirit that was almost tangible. They build some with heads and eyes, so they could see and guild and keep their crew safe. They built life into them. Once they were the most advanced in the world, but now they were obsolete. Just old curiosities to the modern world. Time had left his beautiful ships behind, and it bothered him more than it should have.

Denmark took a large gulp of his mead and swallowed his bitterness along with it. Time to change the topic. He still had questions for the old man.

"You've been around this whole time, right? Then the rest of...of your kind, are they still alive? Where are your Valkyries? I mean, where have they been during all these wars?"

"They've been carrying away your bravest men, just as they always have. You probably just didn't see them in the heat of battle. They aren't easy to spot these days, if you don't know what to look for. They've had to change their form a bit as well, to fit with the new world."

Denmark wanted to ask 'Then what should I be looking for? How will I know it's them?' but the woman bartender suddenly caught his eye. She glanced up and gave him a secretive smile before returning her attention to the glass she had been cleaning. Denmark gave himself a little mental shake (how had he not noticed? She had been there the entire time!) and asked the question that had been nagging at him since he recognized the old man.

"And what about Ragnarök?"

"It will come, and if I still live, then I will fight. And if you haven't forgotten me by then, there will be a place for you by my side in that final battle." The old man's face softened a little into a smile. "Your brother nations are welcome as well, if they wish it."

"I'm sure Norway does. I think he misses the old days sometimes."

Their glasses had been empty for several minutes now, but as Denmark started to flag down the bartender to order more, the old man stood. Denmark raised an eyebrow at him.

"Are you leaving already? What's the rush?"

"I am but a humble wanderer at the moment," the man said as he picked his staff up off the bar. "And I'm not much of a wanderer if I don't keep wandering. The world is different now. There is still more for me to see."

"What, are Huginn and Muninn not doing their job?"

"Ha, did you see them outside? No, they're the same as always, but there are things they can't tell me."

"Like what?"

The old man turned back to Denmark with a small, crooked smile.

"Tell me, why do _you _walk among the humans? Why do you pretend to be one of them? Is there anything you get from them that can't be found in your own kind?"

He left without waiting for Denmark's answer, and by the time the country had paid for the drinks (the old bastard left him with the tab) and rushed outside, the birds, horse and man were all gone. A week later, he returned to the same place and found that the bar had vanished too. There was nothing left but some strange horse tracks in the mud and the memory of the taste of mead, lurking around his tongue like a ghost. After a while, even those faded away to nothing.

Historical and Mythological Notes:

If you haven't guess by now, yeah, the old man is Odin, the chief god in Norse mythology. He's sometimes known as the Allfather. In addition to being a war god, he's also known for being very clever. He has several different forms, one of which is that of a wanderer in a dark blue cloak with a traveler's staff.

Huginn and Muninn are the ravens outside. They fly around the world and report back to Odin about what's going on in the world. The horse is Sleipnir, Odin's eight-legged horse. The bartender was indeed a Valkyrie, which were women who carried the souls of men who died bravely in battle to Valhalla, where they would feast and generally have a great old time until Ragnarök, when they would fight alongside Odin at the end of the world. In some sources, the valkyries also served drinks and food to the men at Valhalla. Hlidskjalf was the high seat of Odin, where he could see all the worlds.

Mead is downright ancient, and might be the first fermented drink man ever created. It was very popular with the Germanic peoples, especially in places were grapes couldn't be grown to make wine. The mead halls during the Viking age in Scandinavia had a lot of cultural significance. Pretty much all the big, important social events (major feasts and whatnot) went on there. Valhalla itself is considered a mead hall (although clearly of a higher class than anything humans could throw together.)

Longships were really cool things, and very technologically advanced for their time. They used the strongest parts of the tree very efficiently to make strong, fast boats that could sail in very shallow water (perfect for getting up rivers to raid those hard-to-reach villages!) The Drekkar ships were the ones most often used for raiding, and they were the ones that usually had figureheads of dragons, snakes and so forth (partially because of the belief that it would keep sea monsters away, but also because anyone who saw one of those coming at them would be pretty damn scared.) The ships were highly valued. When a viking king would die, he would often be buried in his ship. Sometimes the king or cheifian would be placed in his ship and the whole thing would be burned (along with his other possessions and a 'willing' human sacrifice. There was also much ritual boozing at the funeral. The vikings knew how to have a good time.) Long story short, viking longships were awesome, lovely things. Really, Google the Oseberg or the Gokstad longships, they're beautiful.

Anyway, the counties seem to be in contact with various supernatural entities (England's fairies, Russia's General Winter and so forth) so I figured they'd be able to see gods as well. I'm kind of tempted to do more with this idea of countries meeting their old gods. With that in mind, any suggestions? I've been thinking of doing Zeus and Greece (reminiscing about Greece's mom?) and maybe Chernobog and Russia (dark and mysterious god is...dark and mysterious. And I was watching Fantastia last night.) Thoughts?

Reviews are loved as always.


	2. A Visit from the Black God

AN: I decided to change the title and make this thing a chapter fic. For future reference, each chapter will deal with a different country and one of their former gods.

Something had been following Russia on his walk home for the last three blocks. He could hear it, quietly crunching through the snow a few meters behind him. The thin light from the streetlamps illuminated patches of the snowy sidewalk and the windows of a few houses glowed warmly as families inside settled down for the evening, but beyond that the world was dark. It wasn't the normal kind of dark either, much more than a mere absence of light. This was more dense, almost something that could be touched. It had a life of it's own, this sort of darkness. There was really only one being that brought that kind of dark into the world, and at that moment he was stalking Russia through the shadows.

"I don't think I invited you here!" he called over his shoulder, careful to not actually look back. The cold wind caught his breath and tugged it away, steaming from his mouth. "You're very rude, showing up out of the blue like this. Especially when you aren't welcome here anymore!"

There was no answer from the dark figure, but Russia hadn't been expecting one in the first place. That one had never been the talkative sort.

Russia knew perfectly well who was following him. He had troubled Russia for centuries when the country had been smaller. Things were different now, though. He wasn't a helpless child anymore; there was no longer any reason for him to be afraid of the dark. He tried to ignore the old god, but the slow, crunching footsteps seemed to dominate all else. Even worse, it was getting harder it was to tell if it was the sound of boots or large, heavy paws padding through the snow drifts. What would he see, if he turned around to look? A man? A monster? No, he wouldn't think about that.

"I don't believe in gods anymore," he said, loud enough for his former deity to hear. "I don't need them. Not the Christian god, not Dazhbog, not Belobog and _not Chernobog either!_"

There was still no sound from the old god behind him, save the constant, maddeningly steady footsteps. A shiver ran down Russia's spine and he began to walk a little faster. The following footsteps sped up to match.

"Stop following me!" he shouted. His voiced echoed hollowly across the empty street. The street lamps seemed too dim. He suddenly missed the days when they were lit by fire instead of electricity. Fire lit up things that electricity couldn't. Fire was important, even if he couldn't remember why. Fire had made him feel safe back when he was small, but he was old enough to know that there were no safe places in the world.

There were other faint memories bubbling up too: the smell of blood from a sacrificial goat, a goblet passed from hand to hand while he and his sisters huddled around a fire, the whispered curses on every mouth, and the dark god, looming over him like a mountain.

He could remember the feeling of dread on the summer solstice, when the black god defeated the white one. His cold world would turn even colder and the days grew shorter during the half of the year that belonged to _him._ It wouldn't last forever, of course. The gods would fight again, and next time the white god would be the victor. The sun would return, the warmth, the light…

But no, it wasn't the winter solstice yet. The world still belonged to the black god, the god of darkness. There was no getting away, no escape from the cold and dark, but as the sudden panic squeezed his lungs, he broke into a run. He could hear the scuffling in the snow behind him as the god did the same. His boots pounded against the sidewalk (too slow, always too slow! Why couldn't he run faster?) until his foot suddenly hit a slick patch of ice on the sidewalk. It was a stupid, careless mistake for someone who knew snow and ice so well, and in an instant his feet were no longer beneath him. There was a painful _crack_ as his knees hit the ice, but he could hardly feel a thing, not when he could hear Chernobog getting closer and closer and…

Without thinking, Russia covered his head with his arms protectively, waiting for whatever would happen when the black god finally caught him. But nothing happened. The scuffling sound slowed and finally stopped. Russia finally risked a look back. It was difficult to make out any details in the dark, but there was a shape in the shadows, something more like a massive dog than a man. The figure stood silently, lurking, waiting. The panic that had overwhelmed him began to pass and shame rolled in to replace it, hot and dizzying. Pathetic. He wasn't a child anymore. He was strong, and a strong country did not cower, not before a god or anyone else.

"I'm not afraid of you," he said, raising his voice to hide the tremor in it. He pulled himself up out of the snow, brushing the snow off his smarting knees. There would be bruises tomorrow. He forced himself to walk; it was an effort to not run again when he heard Chernobog start to move, matching the country's slow pace. He almost wished the god would just attack him; constantly being followed was going to drive him mad.

"Please, just go away." His voice came out as a miserable little wail. "I don't _want_ you here! Leave me alone!"

No answer. Had Chernobog always been silent? No, he had been different before…much bigger, for one thing. Russia could remember leaning his head back to look up at him, though perhaps it wasn't that the god was so large, just that he had been so small. He heard once that it was belief that fueled a god, and it had been a long time since he had worshiped the old gods. The years of neglect had withered Chernobog away, made him more beast than man.

There, he could see the light from his house, just a little further down the street. The relief turned his knees to water, but he forced himself to keep moving. Chernobog was still following him quietly, but surely he would be safe inside the house. The front door was luckily unlocked and Russia dashed inside, locking the door with shaking fingers before staggering back against the wall.

His breath was still harsh and ragged as he slumped against the wall, squeezing his hands over his ears. He could still hear him out there, _scratching_ against the door (and that was surely the sound of claws against wood, what else could make such a sound?)

He nearly jumped out of his skin when a hand touched his shoulder gently. His head jerked up and his purple eyes met green ones. Lithuania, it was only Lithuania…

"Russia? What's wrong? Did something happen?"

"He's out there still!" Russia blurted out. "He's waiting outside and he won't leave me alone!"

"Who?" Lithuania glanced at the door, and to Russia's horror, walked up to it.

"Don't let him in!" he pleaded as Lithuania unlocked the door and opened it a crack. There was a horrible moment of silence while Lithuania just stared at the uninvited guest on the front door step.

"You aren't welcome here," he said at last, in the kind of strong, firm voice Russia hasn't heard from him in a very long time. "I'm sure Russia already told you, but I'm telling you again. You don't belong here anymore. Go away." To Russia's amazement, there was the soft sound of retreating footsteps that soon faded into nothing. Lithuania closed and locked the door again with a strange kind of satisfaction before turning back to Russia, who was gaping at the smaller country.

"What….what did you…"

Lithuania shrugged. "Nothing. I just told him to leave and he left. It's easier to do when you don't have any past ties to them, it seems. I guess he thought he still had some power over you. That's probably why he was bothering you, though who knows what brought him out tonight."

This wasn't the first time Lithuania had run into one of the gods of the old world, apparently, but Russia was too dizzy to ask for an explanation. His legs still felt all wobbly from the encounter and he allowed himself to slide down the wall to the floor. Lithuania was by his side in an instant, touching the light haired country's shoulder with concern.

"Not hurt," Russia assured him weakly. "Just a little tired."

Lithuania nodded reluctantly, not entirely convinced, and glanced back at the locked door. There was no sound coming from it now, not even the howl of the wind.

"He looked a little familiar," Lithuania said thoughtfully after a moment. "I mean, I think I've met him before," he explained when he noticed Russia's confused expression. "He's one of the gods you shared with Poland, wasn't he? He was much bigger the last time I saw him."

"That was a very long time ago," Russia grumbled.

"W-well yes, but that's how I met him. That's the trouble with living near someone who has different gods from your own, sometimes they…spill over a bit, I suppose."

He sat down next to Russia on the floor, staring out at nothing, or maybe something too far away for Russia to see.

"I can remember it happening a few times. One of Poland's gods would start following me, trying to become a part of me and my people. I figured out after a while that if you're just really firm with them, they'll usually leave. It happened a few times with Latvia's gods too. They could be pretty pushy, sometimes."

Lithuania sighed softly and smiled as he climbed to his feet.

"It's so cold tonight, isn't it? I bought some tea earlier, how about I make you a cup-" He stopped talking when Russia suddenly reached up and grabbed his sleeve.

"Stay here," he said quietly, hating how small and pathetic his voice sounded. "He…he might come back. I'll need you to drive him away again."

Lithuania's eyebrows went up and Russia could feel his face getting warm. He hated to be so weak in front of people. Weakness was something to be taken advantage of; he had learned that lesson time and time again. He could only be safe when he was strong. It wasn't safe to show any vulnerability to others, but it was alright to be fragile with Lithuania. Lithuania wouldn't hurt him, wouldn't laugh at his weakness.

"Of…of course," the smaller country said quietly, sitting back down against the wall and flinching slightly when Russia leaned against him. He held himself rigid while Russia nuzzled closer, but after a moment his slipped his slim hand over to rest over Russia's larger hand.

"You don't need to worry, I won't leave you," Lithuania said gently, and for a little while Russia could believe there was at least one safe place left in the world, one place where the shadows couldn't touch him.

Mythological Notes:

Chernobog is the god of darkness, grief and the waning year in Slavic mythology (his name literally means black god). Belobog, the white god, is his opposite (he's the god of light, sun and the waxing year.) The two fight twice a year, on the summer and winter solstice. On the summer solstice, Chernobog wins, which makes the days get shorter. On the winter solstice, Belobog wins and makes the days get long again. The cycle just keeps repeating year after year.

Dazhbog is a solar deity, and one of the major gods in Slavic mythology.

Fire was treated with respect in Slavic mythology, so much that children were made to be still and quiet while a fire was being lit.

Slavic mythology is kind of complicated, partly because nothing was written down before the arrival of Christianity, and the new religion mingled with the world and warped some things (Chernobog, for example, was often compared to the Devil in Christianity, which isn't quite accurate.) Also, in Russia the nobility practiced a different religion from the peasants. The upper class tended to focus more on the gods, while the peasants, who were mostly farmers, were more concerned with the natural world and all its cycles. Farmers are always at the mercy of their environment, but life was especially harsh in Russia. The short summers and cold weather made farming difficult, and the invading armies from all the various conflicts over the years didn't really make things any easier for them. The people were all too aware of their precarious situation, and were very serious about pleasing the appropriate gods and spirits to improve their chances for survival. As a result, there is a great deal of ritual in Russian mythology and folklore. The sacrificial goat and the act of passing a goblet around while cursing Chernobog were two such examples.

Chernobog and various other gods worshipped in Russia were also worshipped in Poland (some gods and practices differ, but they had a lot of the same gods.) Ultimately, religions tend to mingle and mix with other religions and cultures they come into contact with. For example, Zoroastrianism (which influenced a TON of different religions) is likely the source of the dualism found in Slavic mythology. So I'd imagine some countries met gods that weren't their own.


End file.
